Through the Walls
by vigilantism
Summary: Robert Lutece had fast become someone she could consider an equal. Of course, that was a suspicion more than anything; without meeting him in person, she couldn't be entirely sure. But her hypothesis was that they understood each other on a level that others could not. Of course, logically, that was due to the fact that they were essentially the same person.


Rosalind Lutece, being a scientist, had always been the practical sort. Even though she had discovered a way to stop matter from falling, effectively suspending it in midair indefinitely, she believed in keeping her feet firmly on the ground. She tried to avoid troublesome emotions, especially ones with intangible ideas behind them, such as "hope" or "love". Those emotions were for silly girls, and she was _not_ a silly girl. She was a grown woman, and she had never gone in for frivolities even as a girl.

And besides all that, there was not a single person in the world that understood her or could keep up with her intellectually. Most men spent all their time trying to prove their superiority over her because of the rather unfortunate circumstances of her gender. She countered by talking circles around them, and maintaining a sense of smugness at all times. That was the kind of attitude they respected, or at least pretended to respect. But they did not, in fact, understand her.

Comstock was an exception only in that he did not try to prove intellectual superiority. Comstock was not a fool, but he was not a terribly educated man, either. Once he gave up on being Booker DeWitt, he had furthered his education somewhat. But the things he read were hardly academic in nature. Rosalind harbored no love for the man who fashioned himself a prophet, but she gave him a certain measure of respect because he funded her research so generously. Columbia would not have existed without her discoveries – a fact she took great pride in – but it also would not have existed if Comstock and his political affiliates had not poured money into the research that had gone from one suspended atom to an entire city. Comstock still made demands of her – the latest of which, this other worlds business, had her more discomfited than she'd have admitted aloud – but he did not understand her in the least.

Other women were even worse than men, in some ways. They almost never tried to prove intellectual superiority, probably because most of the ones she knew now were much less formally educated than she herself, but they always tried to prove that their femininity was somehow better than hers. She was always put together and proper, and of course her manners were impeccable, even if her tongue was scathing. She dressed her insults in politeness, like other proper British ladies did. It was something that often went quite over the heads of the Americans she was now surrounded with, and that amused her as much as anything. But still, she was a scientist, and that made her less of a "proper" lady in their eyes. She preferred proving herself to men over childish discussions with other women about when she was going to get married ,and the duty of childbirth. Those things were not for Rosalind Lutece, and if that meant she no longer qualified as a lady, then so be it. At times, she wished she had been born a man so she wouldn't have to fight endless battles to prove herself. She was so much smarter than everyone around her, wasn't that enough? But, alas, it was not, and it would probably never be. Society was too slow to change in that regard, and too slow to understand women like herself.

Reaching other worlds – parallels of their own – had been a mistake, originally. A brilliant one, certainly, but a mistake. There were days she considered it an abject failure on her part, because the knowledge of other worlds was a dangerous one. Zachary Hale Comstock, the self-proclaimed prophet, used this knowledge to his advantage far too often. Rosalind thought, on occasion, of destroying the thing that had made it possible, and burning all the research that went with it to prevent its continuance. But she was not willing to give up her life to spite Comstock. And it was all fascinating, anyway; the differences between worlds could be minute or entire. You never knew what you might find.

The thing that really kept her from believing it to be a mistake, however, was not a sense of self-satisfaction. It was the feeling that at last, at _long last_ , she had finally found someone who understood her.

Robert Lutece had fast become someone she could consider an equal. Of course, that was a suspicion more than anything; without meeting him in person, she couldn't be entirely sure. But her hypothesis was that they understood each other on a level that others could not. Of course, logically, that was due to the fact that they were essentially the same person. But Rosalind was too independent to hold on to that idea. They were _not_ the same person. They existed in two separate places, and that meant they were two separate _people_. Close enough in genetics, she was sure, to be undeniably related. But different people, in different circumstances.

Though they could communicate only in Morse code, for the time being, Rosalind felt connected to Robert in a way she had never felt connected to anyone in her own universe. He understood her dry humor, and even offered some of his own. He understood what she was trying to achieve, scientifically (though he did not have the funding to accomplish what she had – a fact that made her feel perhaps more smug than she ought). They spent long hours tapping back and forth to each other, passing research notes as if they were love letters. Deep down, in the part where she kept all her emotions bottled away, Rosalind felt they might as well be actual love letters; there was more in those notes that she cared about than there would be in any poetry in any language. And the things Robert shared with her helped her figure out, more precisely, how to contact a specific world, instead of finding one at random. Constants, and variables. Once she understood that thoroughly, access was easier.

And Comstock was more demanding.

Rosalind herself did not have the strict morality that many people did. It was not that she had no sense of morality at all, but for her, ethics were less important than the scientific journey. And when it came to it, she had ulterior motives for going along with Comstock's demands to find a child that would match him genetically. Let him have the girl, if he wanted; did it matter so much if she was raised by Booker DeWitt or Zachary Hale Comstock? They were – or had been? Or would be? – the same person in the end, genetically speaking. Though it was hypocritical to think that way, even a scientist had to lie to herself just a little to make it through the day.

Giving Comstock the girl would give her a chance to meet Robert Lutece face to face. There was so much more that could be said face to face than with Morse code.

It had been Robert's idea, primarily. Rosalind had told him of Comstock's desire to have a child of his own bloodline – and of his inability to have one of his own. She was already aware of Booker DeWitt and his daughter, Anna. She had mentioned Comstock's demands offhandedly to Robert, and told him she'd never ask him to do anything unethical. Surely there were other worlds that Anna lived, and she could search there.

Robert would not hear of it. He theorized that any world that Anna DeWitt lived would be one where _he_ lived. And he did not much like the idea of Rosalind abandoning him for another Robert Lutece. She assured him she would do no such thing, and he assured her he would acquire the girl on the condition that he go to Columbia along with her. Rosalind, who had wanted that same outcome, agreed.

Robert never told Rosalind – at least not via Morse code – what he had done to convince Booker to give up his daughter. Rosalind, for her part, decided not to ask. She was curious, but questions like that could wait. Together, they dove into the research that would allow them not only to communicate or to see through the cracks between worlds, but to actually cross through them.

Booker was a harder sell than he'd first appeared, but ultimately they were successful. Well, mostly successful; all that was lost was a small piece of Anna DeWitt's finger, and that seemed a small enough price to pay. Children recovered from injuries well enough. And Comstock was content to weave a fiction about where the girl came from. Rosalind was rather put out by Lady Comstock's misunderstanding of the situation, but she held her peace as best she could. Anyway, she had more important things to worry about. Robert had not taken the transition between worlds as easy as Anna was. Later, Rosalind would realize that it was because Anna did not have too many memories in her infant head. Her brain did not have to rewire to accommodate to a new universe the way Robert's did. Robert bled so much that Rosalind feared for his life, and gave him her own blood to keep him from losing too much. She was not a medical doctor, it was true, but she was not worried that her blood would react badly with his. It was a risk, perhaps, but a very calculated one. Most good science involved calculated risks.

When Robert finally remembered the truth of who he was, he looked up at Rosalind with eyes that finally recognized her. She was tired, and her hair was down. She'd been watching him for several days, listening to him talking about things that could not have happened. She trusted her own memories, and she told him at length about her life – and about what she knew of his life. Neither of them had anticipated that moving Robert between their worlds would be such a harrowing experience. When he looked up at her like that, however, Rosalind considered it to have been worth it.

Of course, she hadn't been the one hemorrhaging blood, but that was hardly the point.

"Rosalind," Robert said, his eyes clear even though his voice was rough, "You are a sight for sore eyes."

She was uncharacteristically beside herself when he said her name, and she leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth. He was too surprised to do anything at first. She realized, belatedly, what she was doing, and sat straight up again.

She cleared her throat, and stood up before he could stop her. She went and fetched a glass of water for him and brought it back. When she came back, he was sitting up. She handed him the water without a word. He took it from her with one hand, and took her wrist with the other hand. He set the water on the nightstand and pulled her closer.

"I appear to be more myself than before. I've only just had time to catch up."

"And I appear to be less myself, judging from my actions a moment ago."

"Don't be coy. It doesn't suit you."

"And how would you know what suits me?"

"Because I know what suits _me_."

"Do you think that makes it so easy to discern what suits me, then?"

"Yes," Robert said, simply, pulling her closer still. This time, he kissed her.

When they parted, she regarded him with mild uncertainty.

"You'll have to excuse the inconvenience. I've been a terrible house guest. I'll make it up to you eventually," he said, dryly. While they had not discussed living arrangements, their mutual affection for each other made actual discussion unnecessary; the fact that he had returned her kiss made that clear enough.

"Careful, brother. I shall hold you to that."

"I would expect nothing less."


End file.
